one three eight one three
by shinizero
Summary: one three eight one three : The Numerology of You and I.  There is fate, and there is destiny.  In your blood, in your bones, in your genes, all the way down to where the numbers are.  AkuRoku, AU.


Title: one three eight one three : The Numerology of You and I  
Author: Di / shinizero / whitereflection  
Pairing/Fandom: Axel/Roxas (Kingdom Hearts 2)  
Rating: G/K  
Note: Written and LJ posted a few months ago--just finally archiving here as well. One of the few things I've written that I'm truly happy with, and continue to feel so even after time has passed.

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Once upon a time, Axel died.

He was hit while riding his bike by a car whose driver had a blood-alcohol level of .08 and who was going thirteen miles over the speed limit. Later he was told he'd been thrown thirteen feet, and had rolled limp as a ragdoll for eight more.

His heart stopped and his breathing ceased for eight seconds before paramedics brought him back.

It was his birthday, August 13; he was thirteen years old.

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It was then, while he recovered from the accident (eight weeks hospital stay with one major surgery, three more minor outpatient operations later), that Axel first became obsessed with the numbers eight and thirteen. During that time of restless healing, his bored-as-hell-(sorry-mom-I-meant-heck) mind drew huge red mental circles around every time in his life when they'd been important--which was often. Very, very often.

He'd been born at 1:38 in the morning, in 1986 (there was the eight, and if you subtracted the six from nineteen it left thirteen). His birth mother had given him up for adoption to a couple who'd been trying to have children for thirteen years; they later adopted seven more. At the time he was struck by the car, he was 138 centimeters tall (only 4 feet, 6 inches, extremely short for a boy his age--how ironic that he'd rocket to a height of 183 centimeters, exactly 6 feet, by the time he was age eighteen and three months). He was 83 pounds, 83.1 by the digital scale at his doctor's office (again ironic that years later he'd never be able to get much above 138, leaving him perpetually skinny). They didn't move often during his childhood, but every time they did the address and phone number featured one, three, and eight predominantly, and/or added up to some combination featuring the digits.

And so on, and so on.

It wasn't that they were his lucky numbers or favorite ones, or that they were simply a fascination to him. Axel quickly grew to consider them _HIS_ numbers, and they were as important and integral to him as his blood and his brain and his bones. Maybe they were part of his _genes_ he once told his bemused parents--to which his mother wondered aloud whether perhaps he'd been watching too much of the Discovery Channel, and would he like to relax a little bit and watch something fun like Spongebob? Until, after they'd turned on the television, he'd offhandedly noted it was episode number 318. His parents had blinked at each other in raised-eyebrow silence, bemusedly watched the show along with him, and then had never broached the subject again. Not even when he graduated thirteenth in his high school class of 813, or when he told them how his college track coach noted that Axel's blood pressure was always 113 over 80, or when every semester he'd proudly revealed his grade point average to be 3.81 on the 4.0 scale.

And so on, and so on, and so on.

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Axel never questioned why the numbers eight and thirteen were such a big part of his life. He just knew they were, and the roman numerals he'd self-tattooed on the inside of each wrist back during high school--VIII on the left, XIII on the right--though now fuzzy-edged and faded to a dull blue, were a constant visible reminder of that fact.

So on March 18 (3/18/08, specifically, a Tuesday, thus the third day of the week), when he was twenty-one (thirteen plus eight, eight plus thirteen), he knew something was going to happen. There was import etched on every number he saw as he rang up the register at the Starbuck's he managed. Pulling his hair back once more into the same spiky, red ponytail he wore each day--for the eighth time already, for freak's sake, the elastic band was too damned stretched and worn--he washed his hands, and turned around once more to the counter...

It was the oddest sensation to literally see the face of destiny (It was something similar to, he would say later, being solidly thumped upside the head with a Nerf bat). Staring for a too-long moment at the customer standing in front of him, Axel didn't see numbers visible anywhere on the blond young man; but he _knew_ they were there, somehow, in some way. There was thirteen and there was eight coded into that guy's genes just like they were for Axel. He was absolutely, positively certain of it as he lost himself in the youth's gem-bright blue eyed gaze.

Distantly he realized he needed to break the silence, to at least offer a greeting and pretend to conduct business, even if his mind was reeling and jumping into mental piles of number-leaves. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, the youth looked down at his watch, started, and abruptly held up a hand, gesturing stop. "Wait," he said.

Glancing down, Axel could just barely see the digital readout on the glowing face of the watch. It was set on military time, hours, minutes, and seconds. 13:08:08...09...10...11...12...13...

The young man suddenly looked up again, an abashed smile on his face. "Sorry. Had to be the right time." His voice sent sparks along Axel's spine, and he gripped the counter to keep himself from jumping over it. "I'm...my name's Roxas. I've passed by here a few times...eight times I mean, not that that's important. But I think I might know you. I mean, I know I know you, somehow. Would it be too weird if I gave you my phone number, and...maybe we could go out sometime? To talk?"

Axel blinked. Then he was grinning like an idiot, he knew for sure he was. "Hell, we could go out for anything," he replied, his grin edging towards a smirk full of wicked promise, barely able to hear himself over the catcalls and whoops of his employees. Though really, despite that reaction, everyone in the store probably thought him something of a goofball for blindly accepting an invitation from a stranger. But this Roxas, this was no stranger, he could _feel_ it in his blood and his brain and his bones, all the way down to his genes where the numbers were. But there was still applause as he and Roxas wrote down and handed each other their phone numbers, Roxas immediately programming it into his cel--and how terribly fitting that for each the three digits added to eight and the four digits added to thirteen. And then his employees were shoving him from behind the counter and out the door, claiming it was time for his break when he knew and they knew he'd taken a break just the hour before.

He'd stood outside in the sun, chattering excitedly with Roxas, filled with a feeling like he was spinning, dancing, on fire, all at the same time. And thirteen minutes later, he'd waved as the other drove off, after they'd agreed to meet that evening at eight.

Thirteen dates, and Axel would call his parents to tell them that he and Roxas were officially a couple. Eight months, and he would call again to say that he and Roxas were going to be moving in together. His family wasn't surprised; they said they'd seen it written in the stars. Axel chuckled, retorting that he'd seen it written in the numbers.

"Oh, Axel," his mother had said in that long-suffering, eye-roll tone of voice. But wasn't it funny how she'd found them an address plate made from wrought iron at a craft show, and without even asking had gotten them one that read "813". And wasn't it funny that when finally found a house they wanted to buy, the address plate was correct?

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The only way Axel broke the pattern thirteen and eight had imprinted his life was that he only fell in love one time. But that was okay, Roxas told him, when Axel admitted this late one night. After all, he'd only fallen in love once, too.

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Note the second: The line breaks? Morse code, for certain numbers, which ones should be obvious. Also, unlike the other two short fic bits I've done for these two, this one's set here in Omaha. I picture the Starbuck's to be the one I frequent at a certain strip mall.


End file.
